The Workplace

I speak of 'I' as millions of voices calling for change.
Every day, every week and every month, I expect to see the changes,
Year by year, with promises of hope and unfulfilled dreams,
I wake up when it's Monday morning by 4:30 am,
Jostling and bustling through the traffics, in Lagos traffics trafficking.
Getting to the office to catch some sleep,
In the office to be lazy till six o'clock,
But have to stay back to avoid rush hour,
Only to get home by 10pm, tired from tirelessness,
Sleeping without sleeping because my heart is an alarm drummed to awake again by 4:30am.
And when I get to the office by 7:30, 8am,
I open the doors to the building dedicated to the building system that only presses me down, where I strive to impress the shareholders, who have no regard for me as a stakeholder.
I match down the hallways cleaned up after me every day by regular Cleaners,
but I never had the decency to honour their names.
Then, again, thank God it's Friday!

By Saturdays and Sundays we wear clothes like girls that cover their insecurities, but expose everything else.
We broaden our shoulders in masculinity mimicked by men who have hoped, yet live in hopelessness.
And by Monday morning we become oceans of workers and business people on the road,
The seas of unemployed and unemployable fill parks and bus stops, pushing and pulling each other for buses of jobs, but never learn to swim.

(Where is the justice? Part 2

Poetry Slam: 
This poem is about: 
My community
My country
Our world

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